“I must use your telephone. Urgently.”
“Come,” Madame murmured. “Come to my office with me.” She threw over her shoulder, “I do hope Miss Olander will be all right?”
Zakhar’s lips curled into a snarl, yet he kept his thoughts to himself.
You hope that whore will be “all right,” do you? She is as good as dead! But before Petroff grants her that kindness? She will beg and pray for death from a man who knows no mercy.
AT EXACTLY 4:15, WHILE Zakhar’s shaking hand was dialing the number to reach Petroff’s aide, Lars Alvarsson answered a call from Mickel Nyström. Alvarsson sank back in his chair as Nyström reported that Linnéa Olander had not boarded the 4:05 train from St. Petersburg to Tallinn.
His reaction was much the same as Zakhar’s. “What do you mean she didn’t get on the train? Where is she?”
He listened. “She went to a spa with her entourage? The car is still parked there? Well? Is she still there? Then find out, you fool!”
He hung up slowly, but his thoughts were racing. He’d received his orders from on high. For the secure future of the Marstead intelligence network and to protect the fact that a Marstead agent had been in place for seven years within the highest circles of the Russian government, Linnéa was to be “retired.” The job was to be done in such a way that Petroff—and the FSB—would never suspect Linnéa’s duplicity.
As much as Alvarsson detested those orders, he’d had no choice but to follow them. So, where was the woman?
According to Nyström, Linnéa asked for and received Petroff’s permission to take the ferry to Stockholm. He rubbed his jaw. But had Petroff given his permission? Had Linnéa’s persuasive genius convinced him? Not once in seven years has Petroff allowed Linnéa to return to Sweden without accompanying her.
He frowned and sat up. Wait. We have only Linnéa’s word that she had gained Petroff’s permission to leave Russia. What proof do we have that she even spoke to him?
His phone rang. He picked up and listened as Nyström spoke, his sentences coming in quick, jerky phrases.
“I sent a female agent into the spa. She reports that it is in an uproar. When she asked what was happening, several people said a Russian man, bodyguard to one of Madame’s patrons, had gone crazy and assaulted the spa’s owner—”
Alvarsson interrupted him. “Mickel, forget the ruckus at the spa. It is a waste of precious time. You say Linnéa assured you she would be on the train because she had obtained Petroff’s permission to come to Stockholm? Yes, well, she lied to you. She is running.”
Nyström spoke again but Alvarsson again cut him off. “Do not for one minute forget who we are dealing with. Linnéa is the consummate actress. This woman has fooled one of the most brilliant men in the world for seven years—you think she can’t fool us, too?”
He glanced at the clock. “What time did she arrive at the spa?”
He listened to Nyström, then replied, “We can assume she slipped away from the spa forty-five minutes to an hour ago, enough time to leave the city. We have no authority to operate in Russia, so we must be discreet. Ask yourself, where would she would go?”
He listened, then added, “Think, Mickel. What do we know of Petroff? What will he do when he hears Linnéa has disappeared? He will believe she has fled from his control and brutality, yes? But he is far too possessive to release her—he would rather see her dead than free. We can assume he will roll out his FSB friends to hunt her down and dispose of her.”
With Nyström’s voice ringing in his ear, Alvarsson quickly devised a plan. “Yes, because of Petroff’s reach within Russia, she would aim to cross the border as quickly as possible. That is certain. She would feel safest in countries where she could blend in, both culturally and ethnically. So! Set your people to work checking every route and mode of transportation out of St. Petersburg toward any western country.”
He ground his teeth. “We must find her—before Petroff does.”
Alvarsson slammed the receiver down and leaned his forehead on his fisted hands.
If Petroff’s men were to locate Linnéa and kill her while she is attempting to flee, it would solve all our problems for us, but we cannot count on that. Linnéa has tweaked the tiger’s tail. She has insulted Petroff’s pride. He would order his people to bring Linnéa to him so that he could watch her suffer and cry for mercy.
And we must not forget that Petroff was KGB. He is far too smart, too experienced not to, upon reflection, suspect the worst of Linnéa. If he were to find her before we do? No matter how good she is, Petroff would break her.
In the end, she would tell him everything she knows—and implicate Marstead. We would be set back a decade. This is worse than bad—it is disastrous.
Perhaps I should consider the retirement I have put off three years already.
Stiffening his spine, Alvarsson left his office and headed for the elevator. Inside the lift’s car, he bypassed the buttons and placed his fingers on the embossed words “Marstead International” and pressed twice. Push-push. And again. Push-push.
In actuality, Marstead owned the entirety of the four-story Stockholm building—including the basement and sub-basement levels, levels that did not appear in any architectural drawings, particularly those filed with the city. The hidden buttons would send the lift directly to the sub-basement without stopping at other floors.
The sub-basement was the most secure location in the building. It was home to Marstead’s fortress-like IT Department and tech laboratory. It also held a secure, shielded room for classified meetings and conference calls.
Alvarsson locked himself in the room and picked up the STU—Secure Telephone Unit. He placed a call to a number he knew by heart. The area code was 757, Langley, Virginia.
A woman picked up immediately. “Marstead International. How may I direct your call?”
“Access Alpha Two Five Five.”
“One moment please.”
He had to wait five minutes before the man he’d called picked up.
“Saunders here. Initiating secure transmission.”
Saunders pressed a button, and they heard a low, fifteen-second scree as their call was encrypted.
Then Alvarsson spoke. “We have a situation.”
PETROFF RESPONDED TO Zakhar’s news with predictable rage, and Zakhar was forced to listen to his employer’s profanities and endure his verbal insults without comment—but he did so while nursing his own anger.
You had better hope Vassili Aleksandrovich’s other men find you before I do, whore, he vowed.
Promising himself that he would make Linnéa pay for humiliating him—and planning just how he would do it—Zakhar left Madame’s office. He was pale but outwardly controlled. Signaling Stepan and Alyona, they returned to their hotel to pack and check out.
From the hotel, Zakhar dialed the number Petroff had given him and issued terse orders. Within the hour, every train station, bus station, car rental business, taxi, airport, and border crossing out of Russia would receive Linnéa’s description and photograph, courtesy of Petroff’s cronies within the FSB.
Zakhar was not allowed to oversee the small army of FSB agents authorized to hunt Linnéa. Instead, Petroff ordered him to return to Moscow and hand deliver the sealed envelope Linnéa had left for Petroff. Late that evening, he stood stone-faced and immobile before Petroff while the man read, reread, and read again the woman’s letter . . .
VASSILI ALEKSANDROVICH, moy lyubimyy—my love,
I sorrow that with this letter I must break both our hearts. Oh, my darling, the fishbowl you must occupy because of your important position—without privacy and forever fraught with political intrigue and danger—is too much for my nerves to bear any longer. I find that the prospect of yet another winter filled with diplomatic cocktail parties and weekends in the country with your partisan friends—where I must guard my every word and even the countenance of my face for your sake—has mired my soul in despair. And so, my dearest one, I am returning to Sweden to live a simpler
life.
Vassi, I beg of you not to reproach or hate me. Perhaps I should have told you how despondent of heart I have grown, but these last weeks, roaming the peaceful forests surrounding Lake Komsomolskoye, have made me long for the mountains of my native home. I have come to crave serenity and a private, uncomplicated life, my darling, and—I beg your forbearance and understanding, my love!—I confess that I also crave what I cannot have with you . . . a family.
I do not place blame, Vassi. How can I? You were forthright when we began. No marriage, no children. I accepted your conditions because my love for you overcame every obstacle . . . even when you asked that I destroy our unborn child. I understood. I do not fault you.
But now, after seven years bathed in your love, I look in the mirror, and I think, “I am forty-six years old. Will my hero, my Adonis, still love me when I turn fifty? When these first hints of crow’s feet about my eyes settle into the deeper wrinkles of encroaching age? Will my darling not look elsewhere for companionship? Will he not pursue love and solace elsewhere?”
Yes, I am forty-six, and while I will not seek to bear a child, nevertheless, I hear the ticking of a clock that grows louder day by day, that will not be ignored. I do not desire another man, Vassi—how could I? But a child? Yes, I desire a child. A child would love and cling to me even as I age—and I would love him or her back. We could be a family, living a simple, uncomplicated life. And so, Vassili Aleksandrovich, I will try to adopt a child before I am much older, before it is too late.
Please allow me to go! I beg of you. Permit me to live out my life in peace with my memories of you to comfort me. I ask this with all the love we have shared, with the many happy memories we made together. Pozhaluysta—please—my love, do not seek for me after you read this, but allow me to fade away as a fond memory in your heart.
I do not say do svidaniya to you, but rather, in the tongue of my homeland, farväl, tills vi ses igen. Farewell, until we meet again, for some day I hope for us to meet again.
I will send word to you when I have found a place to settle in Sweden so that you will not worry for me. Until then, I beg you to remember me with the passion and affection I will always have for you.
Forever yours,
Linnéa
WHEN PETROFF FOLDED the letter and returned it to its envelope, he was calmer. Perhaps even bemused.
“Vassili Aleksandrovich?”
Petroff shook his head. “I must think on this.”
Anger made Zakhar daring. “What does she say?”
Petroff looked out the window of his apartment’s library. “She longs for a child and wishes to adopt one. She begs me to allow her to retire from the stressful public life I live.”
Zakhar’s eyes narrowed. “And you believe her?”
Petroff seemed not to hear him. “She is in pain, Zakhar. Why did I not see it?”
The hatred Zakhar held toward the woman roiled within him, but Zakhar had not achieved Petroff’s trust without the self-effacing mastery of his own inclinations. He knew Petroff’s pride. He understood Petroff better than the man understood himself.
Affecting a sympathetic expression, he asked, “I admit to my impertinence, but would you allow me the great honor of reading her letter?”
Petroff blinked, then extended the envelope to Zakhar. “You will see. You will see how grieved she is to wound me.”
Yes, it is all about you, Vassili Aleksandrovich, all about you—and you are blind!
Zakhar read the letter to himself, ignoring the gushing sentiments that pandered to Petroff’s narcissism. He dissected it objectively, looking for deception—for he was still smarting from the woman’s perfidy which he now saw clearly. From the moment they had departed the dacha until she escaped, she had deceived and manipulated him again and again.
What Zakhar read between the lines of her flowery prose was distraction and deflection. The woman comprehended that Petroff loved her—as much as a man such as he was capable of loving—and her words exploited his egocentric affection. She appreciated that Petroff would be simultaneously aggrieved and furious at her defection, wounded in heart and injured in pride, so she had composed the letter to flatter and mollify him, to take the blame and play upon his benevolence.
And if her letter soothed even a fraction of Petroff’s injured pride, if her words managed to extract the stinger from his heart? She would have accomplished her goal—time enough to disappear.
His hackles rose. The woman knows Petroff as I do. She is playing an admirable game, capitalizing on Petroff’s inflated ego.
He fingered the sheet of paper. “She is distressed, indeed, Vassili Aleksandrovich. How will you respond to her request? What are your orders?”
Zakhar observed Petroff’s internal struggle, watched as he came to a decision.
“Call off the search for now, Zakhar. We know she is going home to Sweden to heal. When the crisis within the Security Council is resolved, I will go myself to find and visit her. Perhaps then I can comfort her.”
Zakhar knew Petroff. He knew how contrary and volatile the man’s disposition was. Whether it took an hour, a day, or a week, Petroff would reverse course as surely as the winds shifted direction. Until then, Zakhar had to tread carefully. For the present, he bowed his chin to his chest in acquiescence. “Da, Vassili Aleksandrovich. I will issue your instructions.”
But Zakhar was no fool. He would continue his hunt for the woman, using the discreet resources at his disposal and make no mention of his findings to Petroff—until the man asked for them.
As he left Petroff, Zakhar added to himself, You are wily, Linnéa Olander, I give you that. You are not the woman you have played so convincingly these past years, but you will not fool me again. I will find out who you truly are—and what you have really been doing all this time.
THE MAIL ROOM HAD DELIVERED Alvarsson’s mail to Ingrid, Marstead’s Stockholm receptionist, at the usual time. She sorted through it, relegating junk mail to the shredder, piling what might be actual mail to the side. Rarely did anything of import come through Posten. Most of Alvarsson’s Marstead communications were handled through secure phone calls while classified documents arrived via armed Marstead couriers.
She picked up a padded mailer. Saw the scrawled name in the corner where the return address belonged. Noted the postmark. St. Petersburg, Russia. She flipped the package over. Personal and Confidential.
Ingrid picked up her phone and called the Marstead Alpha employee who spelled her at regular times throughout the day.
“Hej, Gunnar. Something important has come up. I need you. Yes, immediately.”
Ingrid slid the mailer into an interoffice sleeve. When Gunnar arrived, Ingrid was waiting, sleeve in hand.
“Put me through to Alvarsson, if you please.”
Gunnar sat down at Ingrid’s desk, reached beneath it, and pressed three buttons in succession. One locked down the elevator. The second secured the double doors to the right of the elevator at the end of the hall. Those doors led to the wide floor of cubicles where Marstead International worker bees labored—Marstead workers busy at actual technical research, acquisition, and marketing, employees ignorant of their company’s covert intelligence gathering activities.
When Gunnar pressed the third button, the unadorned paneled wall to her right separated, providing access to the wing housing Marstead’s management suite.
The third button beneath the desk functioned only if the elevator and hall door locks were engaged. The elevator could not open while locked down. Employees could not exit the floor of cubicles when access to the management suite was open. In other words, no one ever saw—or crossed—the threshold to the management wing without appropriate clearance.
If an intruder—a threat—were to exit the elevator on the fourth floor, two taps of Ingrid or Gunnar’s toe against the back panel of their desk would lock down the lobby and send an alarm to building security and all Alpha employees. In fact, the lobby was constructed in such a way that, while the
intruders might threaten or kill the receptionist, they would be trapped where they stood—within the lobby’s secure and reinforced confines—and only the highest Alpha employee in the building could end the lockdown.
It wasn’t as though Marstead’s “regular” employees were ignorant of the management wing. It only meant that they were not allowed access for security reasons. Theft of intellectual property being a tech company’s greatest vulnerability, Marstead’s robust security protocols were acknowledged and not to be trifled with.
Employees who failed to demonstrate appropriate respect for Marstead’s security measures were stripped of their access badge and escorted from the building by armed guards.
Ingrid stepped into the management wing, jogged to the office at the end of the hall, and knocked.
“Come.”
“I felt you should see this immediately, sir. It arrived just now in the post.” Ingrid removed the padded mailer from the sleeve and handed it to Alvarsson.
The man scanned the mailer—then stared at the name in the upper left corner. Linnéa Olander.
“I’m sorry. Say again where you got this?”
“Mail room sent it up with the normal post.”
“Thank you, Ingrid. Please close the door on your way out.”
He waited until she left before slicing into the mailer and removing its contents, a tri-folded sheet of paper and a CD-ROM. He unfolded the paper and read it,
ALVARSSON,
This letter serves as notice of my resignation from Marstead, effective immediately. I have been a loyal employee, serving as ordered for going on twenty-five years, but I have come to the end of usefulness in my present assignment. Indeed, had I continued as mistress to Vassili Aleksandrovich Petroff, I would have become a liability. Not wanting to endanger the company’s network, I elected to remove myself from my assignment and, with this letter, resign from the company’s employ.
If I am allowed to go my way, unharmed and unmolested, Marstead has nothing to fear from me. My wish is to live a simple life, free of the unrelenting stress under which I have lived these past seven years. You also need not fear that I have compromised Marstead’s cover by leaving Petroff. I have taken steps to lead him astray so that he should not suspect me of spying on Russia.
Laynie Portland, Retired Spy Page 10